


The Haunting

by gossamerempire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gossamerempire/pseuds/gossamerempire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day that Aegon VI Targaryen sweeps into King's Landing, he reclaims a little more than his birthright: he inherits the city's ghosts, as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Haunting

Daenerys Targaryen greets Aegon VI Targaryen with her dragons, when his forces commandeer Storm’s End.

Curiously, they do not speak at first, as the city smoulders around them. Ser Rolly Duckfield regards the woman, whose features mirror those of his King’s own, with unease as Aegon orders for the Targaryen banners to be hoisted high.

Daenerys’s frame appears to soften with recognition, and a little something like approval, as the smoke-infused bolts of silk ripple in the wind. “We must settle our gaze upon King’s Landing,” she says simply, as her children circle overheard.

And so it is understood; Aegon sheds the blue from his hair, divests himself of the false name that he has been yoked with from childhood, and reminds himself that while kingship is his duty, revenge is his right.

As he crosses the threshold of the city, flanked by his Kingsguard, a black cat sporting a savaged ear and a single, bulging eye falls into formation alongside the lathered steeds of his retinue. The creature behaves in such an exaggerated fashion, as though it were capable of levelling King’s Landing and protect them from all by virtue of its teeth and claws alone, that it is almost comical.

Obara Sand’s eyes narrow shrewdly as the feline weaves between her stallion’s legs, the fearsome Dornish warrior’s palm resting pre-emptively on the hilt of her blade. Daenerys laughs at the proud swell of the animal’s chest as they march through the City Gates.

Peculiarly, Jon Connington is troubled by their pint-sized, self-styled, solitary guard of honour, though he does his best to hide it. “Welcome home, your Grace,” he intones, gesturing to the Prince That Was Promised, his gaze lingering over the creature with what Aegon can only term as sorrow.

~*~

In the end, they are true to the words of their ancient and noble house; his aunt’s dragons make quick work of the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.

Later, much later, as the pace of his pulse decelerates and his blood sings with victory, he is almost certain that the melancholic, honeyed strains of a harp are also ringing in his ears.

~*~

One evening, early in his reign, after Daenerys and her attendants have retired, and the only remaining Lannister has fallen into a stupor with the aid of a little wine (his frame is small, after all), Aegon hears raised voices while roaming the halls. The conversation is flavoured with the sort of heat that can only come from an argument.

Baffled, he briefly vacillates in the middle of the corridor outside the royal nursery, unsure whether to press on or not, but his interest prevails over decorum. He flattens himself silently against the stone, positioning himself as close as he dares to the entrance of the room that the quarrel seems to be emanating from.

“You could have taken her anywhere. Every corner of the Seven Kingdoms was available to you, yet you took her to Dorne. Was crowning her at the Tourney not sufficient to satisfy you, your Grace? Did you feel the need to openly humiliate me once more for good measure?”

“That was not my design at all. You know the prophecy; it was the only way to keep her and the child safe-”

“And what of your children already brought into this world? Were they not important enough to have members of the Kingsguard stationed outside their doors? Or perhaps the third and final head of the dragon was more precious and important than the first two.”

There is a pause. Aegon has pitched forward off the wall, his ears labouring to hear across the stretch of silence.

When he finally responds, the man’s voice is a dark, wounded thing, and coloured with the same tone that Jon Connington reserves for speaking about Aegon’s father. “You know I loved them dearly.”

“I am not speaking of love. You will not be remembered because you failed to love your children, husband; history will always remember that you let your true issue die alone. You let us die alone.”

Though he does not have the benefit of candelight to confirm it, Aegon is sure that the colour has drained from his face: he has heard his own legend too many times, has been regaled of his own bloody origins, to ignore the similarities in this tale to his own.

He inches closer towards the source of the noise, suddenly propelled by a strange kind of hope that has crazed him since he was a child. But the royal nursery is empty and silent as he cautiously walks in, and he feels his folly bloom hotly across the back of his neck.

As he returns to his chambers, Aegon is more disheartened than he cares to admit.

~*~

The next morning, Ser Rolly Duckfield informs Aegon that a plot against his person has been thwarted by the cat that led them into the city on the day of the conquest.

A raven in the palace rookery, carrying a message intended for those that are still seething over a Targaryen presiding over the Seven Kingdoms, had been energetically mauled in the early hours by the one dubbed as“older than sin and twice as mean.”

“You should knight the furball for services to the realm,” declares Tyrion Lannister drily upon hearing the news, “and send him a roast quail. I am told that he is particularly fond of those, or perhaps he is just fond of stealing from my late lord-father.”

Much to his chagrin, Aegon spends the greater part of the day searching for his to-be knight, to no avail. By nightfall, he is debating the merits of simply ushering the creature into the Kingsguard based on its ability to both irritate and time-waste potential assailants to death.

Muttering darkly under his breath, he stumbles into the stables and is rooted to the spot by what he sees.

The wizened, black cat is purring contentedly against the palm of a small girl with glossy, dark hair and spice-hued skin.

"Balerion, we should go find Papa,” directs the girl cheerfully, enthusiastically massaging the cat’s head in a manner that was more coma-inducing than patting. “He will have some milk for you.”

Aegon’s mouth is dry as he turns hurriedly on his heel, his thoughts displaced, and bolts swiftly back to the Red Keep.

Later, Daenerys raises her eyebrows slightly when he sets down a small plate of cream at the entrance to the throne room, but she does not question the gesture. And if she sees his hand tremble, she does not speak of it.

~*~

At times, he dreams of a bloodied woman with soft, dark curls and a foreign tongue.

He is plagued by the smell of pomegranates and lemons for days afterward, and the fucking cat is everywhere.

~*~

Legend portends that the Iron Throne is cursed.

The parables of the populace are that those that settle upon it grow plump on power, and inebriated on the possibilities of all that it entails.

But Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, does not believe that a piece of furniture, royal or otherwise, is to blame.

He does not fear that power will drive him to lunacy. He fears that perhaps he, like the Mad King, will be hounded into insanity by the ghosts illuminating the walls of this place, instead.


End file.
